


A Single Color

by LiteraryBitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryBitca/pseuds/LiteraryBitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington Soulmate AU. Children see in black and white until some time in their teenage years they gain the ability to see in color... but only when they meet their soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of The Blacklist, and I am not associated with it in any way, shape, or form, other that being a loving and dedicated member of their fandom. :)

Author's Note: I promised myself no Soulmate AUs. I thought I'd never write one. And then there was this tumblr prompt, and almcvay1 and MinP were all stupid and nasty and encouraging and helpful, and then I tripped and fell on my keyboard and as I caught myself, my fingers accidentally wrote this. So there you have it.

...:::...

A Single Color

Chapter 1

…:::...

Lizzie had only told three people about the color. Ever. A boy at school, who teased her and immediately told their teacher, who in turn called Sam. Lizzie had tried to explain it to her teacher, but Mrs. Faber wouldn’t listen, and called her father to discuss Lizzie’s blatant lies. When Sam picked her up later that day, he took her straight home and marched her into the living room.

Which was a bad sign.

Sam only sat with her in the living room on The Good Couch when she was in trouble. When the talk they were going to have was going to be serious.

Like when he told her what her new name was, and that she could never mention anything she remembered from her old life, or her parents.

As if she remembered any of it.

“Lizzie, honey…” Uh oh. He didn’t call her Butterball. Was he going to ground her? “Your teacher called me today to discuss what you told Matthew at lunch. That you can see colors.” Sam didn’t look angry, but he definitely didn’t look happy. “Why would you say that?”

Lizzie shrugged, scowling. “Not all of them, I think. I mean…” She picked at the knobby fabric of the couch upholstery. “I don’t know. I think I see one. One other than black and white.”

“Colors aren’t something to joke about, Lizzie,” Sam said gently. “You’re old enough to know about soulmates, right?”

“Ugh.” Lizzie rolled her eyes and toed off her shoes, purposefully letting them fall messily where they landed, one under the low coffee table, and one farther toward the fireplace. She hoped in vain that Sam would stop this stupid grown-up (-- _gross_ \--) discussion of soulmates and order her to pick them up and put them away in her room.

No such luck.

“Lizzie?”

“Yeah….” Lizzie leaned back into the cushions, caving in on herself a bit. “When you’re older, like in middle school or high school you get to see colors. But only if you meet the person you’re supposed to get married to.”

Sam nodded. “Sort of,” he agreed hesitantly. “When you go through puberty--Lizzie, don’t roll your eyes at me--when you go through puberty, your body goes through a lot of changes. One of them happens in your eyes. We all start out seeing in black and white--like you do right now--like I did when I was your age. Later in life, when you meet your soulmate--the perfect person who will love you _as much as they can_ \--you start to see blues, and greens, and oranges--”

“And red?”

“Yes, and reds--”

“Like your shirt?”

Sam froze. Lizzie watched him swallow and look down at his torso, clad in a red plaid flannel. He frowned, his eyebrows pulled together over his scrunched nose. When he looked up at Lizzie, he spoke very softly. “Honey, who told you my shirt is red?”

“No-one,” Lizzie said defensively.

“You’re only eight years old, there’s no way you can see--”

“Your favorite mug is red. The one I got you when I went shopping with Aunt June for your Christmas present.”

Sam sighed. “You only know that because she told you--”

“No!” Lizzie shouted, pushing herself off the couch defiantly. “Ask me something! I’m not lying!”

“What color are your shoes?” Sam asked, looking at her blue sneakers.

“I don’t know.”

“My pants.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your backpack.”

“I don’t know.”

“That vase.”

“Red.” Sam was starting to look confused. Still not angry, but bordering on scared. Lizzie bit her lip and held her ground. She walked to the front window. “Mr. Maxwell’s car is red. The one in the driveway right now. The Campbells next door have a flag flying on their front porch with a red lion on it. Yesterday my socks didn’t match. One was red. I don’t know what the other one was. The flowers by our front gate are red, and the one’s in the backyard by the hose are, too.” Lizzie turned back to face Sam, whose mouth hung slightly open in shock. “But the red flowers in the backyard don’t smell as good as the red ones by the gate.”

“Lizzie… how long have you been able to…?”

Lizzie shrugged. “Awhile.”

“Since last year? Since before we went to the fair two years ago? Could you see that color...before you came to live with me?”

Lizzie looked down and scuffed her foot on the ground, pulling her sock tight across her toes. “Since the night of the fire, I think.”

Sam stood up and walked over to where Lizzie stood by the window and knelt down to be closer to her height. “Lizzie--this is very important--do you remember anything about the fire? About that night?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I remember my bunny. And the smoke and I couldn’t breathe. I remember my dad saving me.” She paused. “I hid in the closet because I didn’t understand what was happening. The fire was red and I didn’t understand.”

Sam placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and Lizzie looked up from the floor. “Do you remember anyone else? Anyone else in the house? Any other men? Do you remember their names?”

Lizzie searched her memory, but couldn’t come up with anything. Sam looked like he wanted her to remember something specific, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d been so sweet since she came to live with him, and she didn’t want to upset him. What if he decided he didn’t want her anymore? What if the fact that she saw red meant she was broken? Defective somehow?

Lizzie’s eyes welled up with tears, and her chin began to tremble. “I don’t know the right answer…” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to say…”

Sam gathered her into his arms as Lizzie began to cry. “Shhh… it’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t worry, Butterball, this is all okay. This is just...something special. Something that you get to keep, like a very precious secret, all right? Like… Clark Kent and the fact that he’s Superman, huh?”

“Like… I have special powers…?” Lizzie asked, her voice wavering. She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“Just like that,” Sam agreed, pulling back to look at the little girl in his arms. “But you _do_ need to keep this a secret, okay? Because other people won’t understand, and just like Matthew, and Mrs. Faber at school, they’re not going to believe you. It’ll make things harder on you. And I know--it’s not fair, but honey… Unfortunately, since you came to live with me, your life got a little bit tougher than everyone else’s. It’s not your fault--not one bit--but it’s a good thing this happened to you and not to anyone else. It’s a good thing that _your_ life got tougher. You know why?”

Lizzie shook her head and wiped the drying tears from her cheek. “Why?”

“Because _you’re_ tough. If this had been given to someone else, I bet they wouldn’t have handled it _half_ as well as you have. And you’re going to keep handling it, because I know you, and you are _one tough cookie_ , aren’t you?”

Lizzie nodded. “Yep,” she said, setting her jaw.

Sam smiled. “Good. Okay. Well, then, Superman, what do you say we go get some dinner started? Hamburgers sound good tonight?”

Sam stood up and put a warm hand on Lizzie’s back, guiding her toward the kitchen, but she stopped and looked up at Sam. “Can I… can I tell _you_ , though? Since you already know about my superpower?”

Sam smiled down at Lizzie, amazed at how brave and trusting this little girl was. “Sure. I’ll be the one person you can _always_ tell. I can be… Superman’s dad.”

Lizzie nodded and gave a small sigh of relief. She smiled and whispered theatrically, “Superman’s cape is red.”

Sam laughed and nodded, pushing Lizzie toward the kitchen again. This time she allowed herself to be led without hesitation. “Yes, you’re right, it is.”

“And the ketchup we put on the hamburgers…?”

“That too…”

…:::...

That night, after putting Lizzie to bed, Sam picked up the phone and called the number reserved for emergencies only. The line picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Red. Um… Listen. I’m sorry to bother you, but… she said something kind of strange today...and I thought you should know about it…”

…:::...

END.

Author's Note: Don't do it. Don't ask me for more. This is it. I can't write a soulmate fic. I won't do it. If you're looking for multi-chapter soulmate AUs, go read Dream Walker. This is where it ends! :)

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author's Note: I point the blame squarely at Tomybones on AO3 for commenting on Part 1, and asking me what Reddington saw. Because then I couldn't stop thinking about it, and… the rest is below.

…:::...

A Single Color

Chapter 2

…:::...

Raymond Reddington approached the house cautiously. The dull grey of the building's sides looked dingy, as if the home was lived in, but not consistently cleaned. A light lit up the front room with a diffuse glow behind the curtains, and he could see the shadows of people moving around inside.

There was a dark shape on the lawn out front, and as he passed it, he realized it was a plastic tricycle. His pace faltered momentarily as he worried that he had the wrong street. His contact had been half-dead when he'd finally given up this address, and Reddington knew torture wasn't always the most effective or reliable way to obtain information. He'd had the name for months, but hadn't been able to track down a location… until now. This had to be it.

He  _needed_  this to be it.

Pushing the doubt down and away, Reddington quietly walked up the low concrete steps to the front landing, and knocked lightly on the door.

He listened carefully to the movement in the house, and when the door swung open, Reddington blew out a shocked breath and took a single, unsteady step backwards. Remembering quickly that there were stairs behind him, he forced himself to plant his feet as he bravely attempted to school his face into something he hoped appeared approachable and… good.

The woman who answered the door was blonde. Her hair was  _blonde_.

She was wearing blue. Blue with… green? In it? What was that? Teal?

Reddington thought wildly that this- _this_ -was why poetry existed. How else could you describe color? Simple prose wasn't enough.

Naming the color of her eyes was insufficient.

The walls behind her were exposed brick, and he'd never expected something as rough and ubiquitous as brick to include so many different shades of red, and brown, and orange, and…

He needed to learn the names of more colors. He needed books, and swatches, and…

_This is why there's an entire wall of paint chips at hardware stores._

How do people choose, given the scope of…?

"Вы кто такой?" the woman asked, looking Reddington up and down, warily. She shifted the sleeping child on her hip and when Reddington failed to answer immediately, she began to shut the door.

"Wait-" Reddington said throwing out a panicked hand toward the door. He knew that once you met each other, the colors didn't disappear, but for a desperate fraction of a second a cold horror gripped him: what if she closed the door and his world went back to black and white? "Wait. I think… regardless of whether you have the Fulcrum…" The woman took a breath and stepped back from the door, her eyes widening. Reddington stepped boldly into the house after her, gently swinging the door closed behind himself without ever taking his eyes off of her. "...we both know…" The door clicked shut softly. "...I'm in the right place." Reddington made an attempt at a smile, his head tilting to one side. "Aren't I?"

"Yes," the woman said, somewhat breathless. "But… you… you're American." Her accent was noticeable, but she spoke English well. Thank goodness for small favors. Reddington couldn't begin to wrap his mind around the complications inherent in the fact that he was an agent for the US government, and she was a KGB operative looking to defect, bringing with her a large, international blackmail file that was most likely going to put massive targets on both of their backs.

Reddington tried to smile again. There was a plant on a small table in the front entryway, and the leaves were a brilliant shade of emerald-

"Yes," he managed.

The woman looked him up and down again. "I've been quietly trying to find a way out of this mess for years now... " She seemed to relax slightly, realizing what she'd been waiting for had finally arrived. She let out a small breath that might have been a laugh if she'd put in the effort. "For some reason… I always thought it would be the British that took me up on my offer and came for me."

Reddington shook his head, still staring intently at the woman. "I'm so  _very glad_  it's me," he said earnestly.

Finally breaking into an easier smile, the woman raised an eyebrow. "You'll probably get promoted for this. What a lucky night for you."

Reddington, for once, couldn't find the words necessary to construct a clever answer. After an awkward beat, he shook his head, trying to think clearly. "First thing's first. Let's get the Fulcrum, get you out of here and on a transport back to the US, and then we can talk about…" Reddington spread his hands out in front of himself. "...everything else." He stepped forward, unsure what the protocol was in this situation. "My name is Raymond. Raymond Reddington," he said, offering his hand to shake.

The woman nodded and shifted the child in her arms again, seating her more solidly on her hip so she could take his hand. "Katarina. Katarina Rostova."

Reddington's smile grew. "I know. I've had your name for months. I just…" He shook his head, completely aware that he was staring at her with wonder. "...I just couldn't find you."

Katarina nodded. She seemed uncomfortable with the way Reddington was looking at her, and he cleared his throat and took a hesitant step backward. Katarina looked him up and down again. "You must think I'm quite a catch," she said.

Reddington hoped to high heaven that he wasn't blushing, since she'd obviously be able to see the pink rise in his cheeks more dramatically now. "I, um… I'm sorry. I know this is strange. Why don't we just concentrate on getting you to safety. Let's… work with this objectively. The Fulcrum?"

Katarina pursed her lips. "Of course. Follow me." She turned and led the way down a hallway, toward the back of the house. It was only then that Reddington realized what the child on Katarina's hip meant.

She'd grown tired of waiting for him.

His blood ran ice blue in his veins as he remembered he'd also given up. Some people never find their soulmate; how do you gamble on something that doesn't even have good odds?

His wife…

His daughter.

Reddington bit his lip, his throat tightening.

Business first. Concentrate on getting Katarina out of Russia, and then he could work on the problem of spouses and children.

...was this child coming, too? Would Katarina bring-?

"Are you planning to bring your child with you?" Reddington asked as they stepped into a dark bedroom and Katarina flipped on a dim lamp on a low table. She leaned down and gently placed the sleeping child on the bed. Without waking, the little girl wound her arms more tightly around the tawny toy rabbit she held.

Katrina sat down on the bed next to her, reaching for the stuffed animal. "Yes, of course. I would not leave Masha here with her father."

Just then a loud noise from the front of the house startled both of them, and Katarina's head whipped up to look at Reddington. "Вот чёрт," she swore under her breath. Jumping up from the bed, she pushed Reddington aside and began stalking down the hall with purpose.

After a second of hesitation, Reddington ran after her, toward the shouts and yelling in Russian. The scene he walked in on was a blur of brown jackets and angry faces, and Reddington felt a flare of anger blossom in his chest as one of the two men immediately backhanded Katarina as she entered the room. Reddington threw himself toward the man as Katarina's voice joined the din of shouts and screams, and the second man grabbed Reddington's jacket and hauled him away, spinning him into the beautiful brick wall. He slumped to the ground, shaking the fogginess and delay from his head. He pulled his hand away from his forehead to see a smear of crimson across his fingers.

"нет!" Katarina cried, lunging again at the man who had hit her. He grabbed her around the neck and tossed her to the ground, choking her.

Reddington struggled to get up, but was pushed back down immediately. "Do not even think about it," came a thickly-accented Russian voice from behind him, and Reddington felt the muzzle of a gun press into the base of his skull.

The crack of a gunshot reverberated around the room, and after the split second it took for Reddington to realize it wasn't the gun to his head that had fired, he took advantage of the distraction, and rolled, kicking at the feet of the man standing above him. Reddington wrestled the man to the floor, upsetting a small table which sent picture frames and candles toppling to the ground. Reddington tried to look up to see what had happened to Katarina, but the momentary change in his concentration allowed the man under him to land a solid punch to his jaw, and Reddington sprawled backwards.

The rosey, puffy, bleeding face of the other man loomed suddenly in front of Reddington again, and as he struggled with the Russian thug, he clung desperately to the fact that he could still see the red of the man's blood, and the ugly olive green of his shirt.

Katarina was still alive.

Reddington's adrenaline ratcheted up a notch when he realized he could smell smoke, and a garish orange flame was visible in his peripheral vision, licking up one of the curtains. Reaching to one side, Reddington cast his hand around for something- _anything_ -

Hauling his arm up with as much strength as he could, Reddington hit the man above him with the corner of a heavy metal picture frame. The glass shattered, and the Russian slumped to the side, twitching slightly, his eyes still open, but the side of his head bleeding and misshapen. As Reddington sat up, breathing heavily, he cast his eyes around the room, noting Katarina immediately.

She was pulling herself along the ground, her bleeding leg dragging behind her. Reddington could see immediately that it was broken, and he pushed himself toward her frantically. "We have to go!" he shouted above the crackle of the fire that had already engulfed the front wall of the room.

"My daughter!" Katarina yelled. "Get Masha first!"

Reddington shook his head. "You're hurt-let me get you-"

Katarina reached under the splintered coffee table and produced a handgun she'd obviously stashed there previously. She cocked it and pointed it at Reddington's face. "Masha," she demanded. " _NOW_."

With a growl, Reddington pushed himself up and dashed down the hall toward the bedroom. He skidded to a stop at the doorway and swore.

Empty. The bed was empty.

Reddington whirled around, looking frantically up and down the hall. His eyes caught sight of another handgun he didn't remember seeing earlier, lying on the ground in the hallway, just outside the door to a closet.

A high, panicked scream came from behind the slatted door, and Reddington suddenly realized where the earlier shot had come from. He ran to the door and wrenched it open. Hiding in the growing smoke was the little girl, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest.

"Masha, come here, sweetheart," Reddington coaxed, a small voice in the back of his mind pointing out that this little girl probably didn't speak a word of English. He held out a hand to her, and she grabbed it, allowing herself to be pulled from the closet floor and into his arms.

Wrapping himself around her, Reddington bolted for the front door, pushing through it quickly and depositing the girl on the front lawn before turning and dashing back into the house.

"Katarina?" he yelled, his eyes stinging and watering because of the heavy smoke. His throat scratched, and he coughed harshly. "Katarina?" Running into the front room, he tripped over a body lying on the floor. Barely able to make out the shapes in the orange heat of the room, Reddington saw the man who had attacked Katarina, lying in a pool of blood.

White hot pain seared across his back as a piece of ceiling caved in, scraping down his left shoulder. Reddington cried out, and rolled away from it, desperately clawing at his jacket and shirt to remove the burning fabric.

Feeling the additional sting of broken glass slice into one of his hands, Reddington looked down to see he was crouched over the ruined picture frame he'd killed the second man with. Without forethought or planning, he snatched the photograph of Katarina and her daughter from the frame and stumbled toward the open front door. Just as he reached the threshold, he was pushed through it by a blast of hot air and a deafening explosion.

His ears ringing, Reddington pushed himself up uneasily, realizing he was face down on the brick walkway that led to the house. He rolled, and looked back at the angry red flames engulfing the building.

There was no way anyone in there had survived.

He'd only just met her…

Reddington viciously stamped out the voice in his head who claimed this wasn't fair.

 _Life_ wasn't fair.

...but why could he still see in color?

Katarina was alive. She'd managed to get out…

_How?_

_Doesn't matter._

She'd have to go back into hiding at this point. The best thing he could do was take her daughter and get her somewhere safe. Katarina knew his name now, and she knew what they were, so she'd have to be the one to find  _him_ this time.

His back screaming in pain, Reddington raised himself up on his hands and knees and crawled toward the crying, hysterical little girl standing in the front yard of her destroyed house. He gathered her in his arms, and stumbled toward his car.

…:::...

As soon as the phone started ringing, Reddington snatched it up. This phone was only for emergencies. What was wrong?

"Sam. Is she okay? Has someone come for her?"

"Hey, Red. Um… Listen. I'm sorry to bother you, but… she said something kind of strange today...and I thought you should know about it…"

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah, she uh… she told me she can see colors."

"She's eight."

"I know, I know, that's what I said, but… She can. She proved it to me. But… not  _all_ of them. Just one. Just... red."

Reddington frowned. "I've never heard of that happening. This just started today?"

"No, that's where it gets even stranger. She said it started the night of the fire."

Reddington put the glass of scotch down heavily on the counter, and missed, the drink splashing across the marble and the tumbler hitting the ground and shattering.

Sam listened to the silence over the phone. "Are you still there…? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I heard you," came the answer. "Sam, tell her… tell her she can never tell anyone."

"I did, I already-"

"Good."

"What is going on? Do you know something?"

"No," Reddington answered in a low voice as he glanced across the room at the photograph he'd managed to save that night. It now sat in a new frame, nestled among other various knick knacks and keepsakes on his shelves. "I don't know what's going on. But this  _does_  clear up something I've been wondering about for a  _long time_."

…:::...

Author's Note: Okay, NOW it's done. Stupid muse. *grumbles* No more soulmate stuff, now, I mean it. *draws additional line in the sand*

***Edited to add: Thank you so much to Curly Irene for correcting my Russian! I appreciate it very much! :) Also, after multiple reviews telling me to get my head out of my butt, I've given up trying to fight this story, and chapter 3 should be available in the next few days. :)


	3. Chapter 3

…:::...

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author’s Note: At this point, I’ve given up fighting this, and the rest of the story is dedicated to RedandLizzie, Tomybones, rolobr, allyourrain, Juulna, and all the other wonderful people who commented on the first two chapters, encouraging me to remove my head from my butt and just give in to the fic. You all had some brilliant ideas, and they all got me thinking and brainstorming, and after marinating on potential plotlines for two days, this is how I’m continuing it. This story truly would not exist if it weren’t for all of you. Also, I apologize. This chapter is a little dry and dull, but I needed to fill some stuff in before I potentially move on to Lizzie's first day at the Post Office. ;)

…:::...

A Single Color

Chapter 3

…:::...

Despite her protestations to the contrary, it disappointed Lizzie. The fact that she’d never have a soulmate.

Sam tried, on multiple occasions as she grew up, to discuss the possibility that she was just a little different and that when she met someone in college she’d convert, and gain the ability to see _all_ colors, not just red. She didn’t believe him. She figured she was somehow defective; that some sensor was broken. Just like the studies she read about children with autism, she tried to make peace with herself that she wasn’t normal, and that was perfectly fine. She could lead a fulfilling life, complete with love, and a job, and even children. She counted herself luckier than those who never found their soulmate; at least she got to enjoy one color. Some people never got to see _any_.

She dated in high school, dated in college, and even got engaged to Nick just before joining the mobile psych unit in New York. Nick was a practical sort of man, and when he told her he didn’t believe in soulmates being the only source of emotional happiness available, she believed him.

When they ended their engagement, he tried to tell her it was because of their different career paths, and that he just wasn’t ready to get married. She could see he was lying, and after pressing him for more information, he finally sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I met my soulmate,” he revealed. “Last month, at the conference in Philadelphia.” Liz, instead of feeling disappointed, felt a swell of relief, and- -in an attempt to ease Nick’s guilt about leaving her- -confessed that she, too, had been seeing someone else recently. Assuming she’d met her soulmate as well, he congratulated her. When she admitted that wasn’t the case, and that Tom was just someone she’d met through a friend of a friend, Nick had called her a whore, and left.

Liz considered him a bullet dodged.

Tom was sweet, and normal, and low-key. They had similar taste in music and food, and agreed on most political and artistic topics. If this wasn’t her soulmate, she couldn’t imagine someone being more suited to her. It was like he had a handbook.

One day, walking in one of the city parks, Tom told her he didn’t believe you should waste your life and the chance for current happiness and support on a gamble that had no guarantee of paying off. Liz pointed out that if there was any kind of guarantee, it wouldn’t be a gamble.

“That’s just it, Liz.” He dropped to one knee on the path, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small box. “I’m here, in front of you right now, and I swear to you… from where I’m standing, a life with you in black and white looks _absolutely beautiful_ to me. Will you marry me?”

 _Why not?_ she asked herself.

She chose red roses for her wedding bouquet.

Sam had always told her to be less obvious about the fact that she could see a color. She couldn’t help it- -she adored the warmth, the vibrance of the color, the way it stood out so starkly from the rest of the black and white world around her. She found herself picking CDs with red cover-art, and buying red clothes more often. The three-ring binders she used for school were always red. She gravitated toward posters that heavily featured the color, so her bedroom walls were covered in the hue. She loved strawberries, cherries, apples, and tomatoes, and always wished that her preferred way of cooking beef (medium-well) could somehow retain the red of raw meat.

“There’s no way this is random, Lizzie,” Sam said. “People are going to start asking questions if you don’t pull back on this a bit.”

She always wondered if he knew the reason for her ‘nervous habit’ of stroking the burn scar on her right wrist. If she pressed on it roughly and irritated the marred skin long enough, it took on a vaguely reddish color that she could see. It made her feel brave.

It was strange that the night of the fire was constantly on her mind, considering she remembered next to nothing about the event. She couldn’t remember how her hand had been burned, she didn't remember what house looked like from the outside, and she couldn’t remember anything about her parents… Were they soulmates? Were they both dead now? She had so many questions. Lizzie remembered being pulled from the burning house by her father, but she thought he ran back inside… Probably for her mother, Lizzie reasoned. She’d put money on them being soulmates. Why else would you run into a burning building for someone else? The notion that one of them might have survived, color blind for the rest of their life, made her immeasurably sad. Never able to see the color red again. She imagined her father, clear of the house, watching the flames that stole his soulmate slowly fade to shades of grey. Sometimes she hoped they both died in the fire, surrounded by the brilliant beauty of red.

She knew, from having studied them in her psychology courses, that some people led very happy and fulfilling lives after being widowed. One can lose a soulmate and still find someone else with which to share what comes next. Why be miserable and lonely forever? It may not be the same, but the love of another human being is always a comforting thing.

By the same token, some people _never_ met their soulmate. Or met them late in life- -what if she didn’t meet hers until she was eighty? What if she met them the day before she died?

Sam had met his soulmate in his late twenties, right when he’d been unexpectedly saddled with a small child. His soulmate had already married another man and had two children with him. She’d been diagnosed with lupus at nineteen, and hadn’t been willing to wait for her soulmate, knowing that she wanted a family, and her chances of a safe pregnancy were better the younger she was. Sam, loathe to tear a mother away from her two sons, agreed to keep their connection a secret, and wait until the kids were older and able to understand.

By the time Lizzie got married, Sam was color blind again. Complications with the disease had led to kidney failure, and he and his soulmate had never gotten the years together they’d hoped for.

But through all the years of dating, engagements, and marriage to Tom, Lizzie kept her promise to Sam. She’d never told anyone about her ability to see anything other than black and white. She carefully decorated her house with Tom in shades of grey, only adding small pieces of merchandise labeled “Color”, and very few of them red. Once she set her sights on working for the FBI, she clamped down on her secret with a death grip, almost entirely ridding her life of the color. 

...except for her occasional trips to the hardware store, usually at the end of a truly bad day. She'd wander down the paint aisle, pausing in front of the section of the sample wall that held dozens of red hues on small, thin pieces of card stock. If a salesperson caught her and offered help, she’d shrug and say, “No use. Color blind. I just can’t imagine there being enough variety of color to necessitate all of these little squares…” She’d leave quickly after that.

…:::...

Reddington, for his part, stayed as far away from Lizzie as possible. He traveled internationally, limiting his contact with Sam to the bare minimum. Most of the time he’d just deposit money directly into his bank account, when he thought it was necessary. Red never gave Sam any cause to suspect anything (at least, he hoped to God that was the case), and mostly used third parties to watch over Lizzie’s progress and well-being.

When she graduated from college, Tom was hired to keep tabs on her.

Reddington rarely wasted time regretting his actions.

But when he heard of their engagement, he regretted hiring Tom.

…:::...

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

…:::...

Disclaimer: Not associated, not mine. Work of fanart only.

Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely guest who is responsible for jump-starting this chapter! This one is dedicated to you. (I swear, this story has become such a group project due to all the comments and reviews…)

…:::...

The sound of cutlery against a wine glass shushed the festive noise of the party, and everyone turned toward the host, who smiled and cleared her throat. “Good evening! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for joining us tonight. Mark and I are so lucky to have such a great group of friends, and you all know I _love_ to throw parties--” Ashley paused as laughter rippled through the room. “--and my very favorite time of year is _right now_ , around the holidays. We’re both so grateful to have all of you in our lives, and this year has just been so wonderful…” Ashley held her glass up in the direction of a couple near the window. “Alison and Rob had a baby… And we have three more couples here who are expecting, which is why there are so many bottles of sparkling apple juice floating around here tonight, as well as champagne…” More polite laughter. “...and just two days ago… our very good friends Liz and Tom,” Ashley smiled and pointed her glass in their direction, “got engaged!” Applause and congratulations filled the room. “So!” Ashley shouted above the din. “Raise your glasses, everyone! To love, and babies, and friendship, and parties! And here’s to an amazing next year!”

Liz smiled and turned to Tom, gently clinking her wine glass against his. He leaned in for a quick kiss before they were interrupted by the congratulations of those around them.

“The ring! Let me see the ring!” Sandra said, elbowing through the crowd toward Liz.

Liz smiled graciously and held out her hand, admiring Sandra’s red dress.

Grey dress.

The smile slid from Liz’s face, and she frowned. She could have sworn the dress was red as it came toward her… She must have had too much merlot, she thought looking down at the black liquid in her glass.

Not dark red.

Liz’s breath hitched, and she took a step back, turning quickly to look toward the front door that she knew held a red ribbon wreath, and was framed by two poinsettias sitting on the floor on either side.

_Grey wreath grey flowers--_

“Liz?” Sandra withdrew her hand, worried that she’d somehow upset her friend.

Liz shook her head and handed her drink to Tom. “I’m sorry, I just… I need a second… I’m gonna…” Liz spun and made a beeline for the bathroom.

“Liz? Babe? Are you okay?” Tom followed her, but when he got to the door, he found it locked. “Liz?”

“I’m fine, Tom, I just… I need a minute alone. I think I had too much wine…” Liz said, staring at her reflection. Her lipstick was a dark charcoal.

“Do you want to go home? Do you need to leave?” Tom’s concerned voice was muffled through the door.

“Um… I don’t know. I think I’m fine, but I just need a moment alone… I’ll be out soon, I promise. I’m just… splashing some water on my face.” Liz opened the drawers in the vanity quickly, searching for a brand she recognized.

“Okay… I’ll grab you a glass of water for when you come back out, okay? And you can decide if you want to call it a night.”

“Thanks babe, I appreciate it!” Liz called through the door. _Yes!_ she thought, triumphantly, grabbing a tube of toothpaste. Colgate…

The logo was unfamiliar when it wasn’t red. It was a hazy sort of grey.

“ _No_ …” she whispered. This wasn’t fair.

The small wooden carved Santa that sat next to the soap dish was a dismal mix of black, white, and ash.

For a moment hope bubbled up in her chest that maybe this wasn’t a Color Santa, but Ashley and Mark were soulmates, and they’d never buy a Santa that wasn’t in full technicolor.

She’d lost red.

Liz’s throat tightened, and she felt the stinging threat of tears behind her eyes. She sat slowly on the edge of the bathtub. She felt like she’d lost a part of herself, a part of her identity, even though 99.9% of the people in her life had no idea that the part even existed.

She needed air. Suddenly the warmth of the house was suffocating, but Liz couldn’t bear to leave the bathroom just yet. She didn’t want to see people, and be forced to put on a brave face and pretend she didn’t feel like her world had tilted off its axis. Climbing into the tub, she worked the lock on the window open, and shoved it out as far as it would go: only a few inches, but enough that she could gasp at the wintry air outside. She leaned her cheek against the glass and looked out on the dark street, the bright headlights of a car shining on the icy wetness of the street.

Her heart ached for the people who had lost a soulmate. If this was what it was like to be suddenly deprived of _one_ color, what must it be like to lose them _all_?

Another car drove slowly down the street, away from her, and slowed to a stop at the corner before making a left, the brake lights causing the snow bank in the gutter to glow red.

Liz grabbed at the window sill.

The brake lights on the car were red.

So was the stop sign.

Liz whirled around and fought frantically with the shower curtain, shoving it to the side and tripping out of the bathtub, cursing her decision to wear heels.

The Santa smiled up at her from the vanity, his cheery red suit ablaze in the lights of the bathroom.

Red!

Unable to stop herself, Liz gave a triumphant laugh, picking up the Santa and grinning at him like he’d just solved all of the world’s problems for her.

“Liz?”

Liz hurriedly replaced the little painted wood figurine and wrenched the door open. Tom stood on the other side, holding a glass of ice water.

“Tom!” Liz threw herself at her fiance, peppering his face with kisses.

Tom staggered back a bit, trying not to spill the drink he’d brought for his wife while wrapping his other arm around her waist. “Whoa… are you okay? What happened? Do you feel all right?”

“I feel great,” she gushed, smiling brilliantly at him. “Let’s get back to the party.”

“But what--?”

Liz pulled at Tom’s hand, dragging him back down the hall. “I’m fine! Let’s celebrate! I love Christmas!”

…:::...

Reddington came to, coughing up foul-tasting water. He rolled to the side, beginning to shake because of the cold. He gulped air erratically, and tried to push himself up on one shaky elbow.

“Christ, man, you scared the living daylights outta me,” the man hovering over him said, water dripping from his soaked hair. “Remind me again why all this was necessary? What was the rush to get out of there so fast? There were twenty different possibilities that didn’t involve you dying on me. What happened to ‘We need to play this smart, Eli?’ What happened to ‘Patience is a virtue?’ Huh?”

Reddington coughed again, and gagged slightly. “Karl Hakimi doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, his voice tight.

“ _What?_ ” Eli asked, sitting back on his knees. “Excuse me? We’ve been planning this job for almost _six months_ , Redding--”

“ _It doesn’t matter anymore_ ,” Reddington interrupted with more conviction.

“Uh huh. Okay,” Eli agreed sarcastically, obviously furious. “So should I assume our flight like bats out of hell tonight was in pursuit of something more important?”

Reddington nodded, pushing himself up on to his knees and struggling to stand on rubbery legs.

“Are you going to tell me what that is...?” Eli prompted.

“I received some bad news two days ago,” Reddington said, trying to get his bearings before heading off in a specific direction. Stripping off his sodden jacket and tie, he dropped them, uncaring, on the sand next to Eli and motioned for him to get up and follow him as he started off down the beach. “We have to get out of Marrakesh as soon as possible.”

Eli shook his head and groaned as he stood. He jogged a few steps to catch up with Reddington. “You wanna take a second? Again… you _died_ just now. It’s okay if you want to, y’know, go easy here?”

Reddington cut his eyes sideways at Eli, but didn’t slow his pace at all. “You got me out of the water?”

“Yeah.”

“How long was I down?”

“Scariest two and half minutes of my life, man,” Eli said, following Reddington dutifully toward the lights of the city several miles ahead of them. “I’m a criminal, not a goddamn superhero. I’m not cut out for this life-saving, heroic crap…”

…:::...

TBC.

Author’s Note: I know, the geography is sketchy, but this is a fanfic, and I say Marrakesh has a beach somewhere near it. So there.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Author's Note: For pntr35 on tumblr. Thanks for lighting a fire under my butt. And also for the best guest reviewer ever, Becca, who reminded me it's been an age and a half since I updated anything significant. Apologies on how short this chapter is, but I needed a bridge before we get to them ACTUALLY meeting. So stay tuned. That's in the works this weekend, too.

…:::...

Reddington was furious.

Mostly with himself.

It took him four days to deal with Eli and the remaining situation in Marrakesh, and by the time he was finally able to arrange safe transport for himself out of Morocco, Tom and Lizzie were already married. It hadn't taken more than a week.

The bastard had even managed to steal away to Vegas for a bachelor party.

Reddington wished he didn't grudgingly admire how fast Tom was able to maneuver within his cover identity. Whoever had bought his loyalty away from Reddington had acquired one hell of an asset.

Six months later, Reddington arranged a meeting between Tom and one of his associates, creating a plausible job interview scenario in Boston to cover the real reason for the contact. In order to avoid the slightest possibility that he might run into Lizzie on the street, he'd sent someone else while he remained in London.

The offer had been more than generous. A clean weapon, several official passports, and a sizable payoff. All to just walk away.

He'd never been able to unearth the reason behind Tom declining the offer; he could only assume whoever was pulling his strings now had promised him something better.

"Why now?" his associate had asked him as he sat outside the FBI headquarters in DC.

Reddington chuckled, shaking his head in resignation. "Because it's been almost two years… and I haven't been able to detach Tom Keen from his assignment. And since nothing else has worked-" Reddington pushed himself up from the bench and stood, looking up at the pale blue sky. "-it's time to get creative."

 _And colorful_ , he thought, as he started toward the building.

…:::...

TBC.

Author's Note: Am I right in thinking we never got exact dates for engagement or marriage for Tom and Liz? All we know is that his bachelor party was Dec 3rd, 2011. And Boston was June 2012. So they could have gotten engaged at the end of November 2011, married in the first week of December 2011? I'm trying to NOT mess with the timeline. (Timeline? What timeline? TPTB have a timeline...?)


	6. Chapter 6

…:::...

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Author's Note: I thought this thing was going to have five chapters. This is six. And it didn't end. Stupid muse.

…:::...

Liz was generally mortified at the way her morning had progressed. She hated feeling out of control, and being flown to a blacksite on her first day as a FBI agent was definitely not something she had planned for. She assured Director Cooper she had no history with the man who was currently locked in a box and requesting her by name. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not.

Agent Ressler obviously didn't.

As they led her through the work room at the Post Office, she caught sight of the holding cell on a monitor. The red cross beams stood out starkly on the otherwise black and white feed.

"If you need anything, remember… we're right here," Cooper reassured her as they rounded the corner and Liz walked through the door.

The sound of an alarm echoed through the large, cold room as the red box slid back from the man seated inside, shackled to a chair. Liz stepped out onto the landing and reached for the handrail before continuing down the stairs-

Liz looked at the handrail, confusion clouding her features.

Yellow.

The handrail was yellow.

Liz swallowed, and look up at Reddington. He was staring directly at her, the barest hint of a sly smile on his face. Her heart dropped.

_Please let it be one of the guards, please let it be one of the guards, please let it be one of the guards-_

Wildly grasping at the thin shreds of professionalism she could still find, Liz reached out and rested her hand on the bright railing before descending the stairs slowly.

She'd always thought of light as _white_ \- -something without color- -but as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, she marveled at the beauty of the slight bluish tint that was cast across most of the room.

There was a single metal chair set in front of Reddington, and Liz made her way toward it. She sat down stiffly, and crossed her legs. She was close enough to see his eyes, but she couldn't decide on their color. She wanted more objects in her life that were the exact shade of his eyes, whatever color that actually was.

Reddington watched her face closely, remembering how difficult he'd found it to function in the first few minutes of color. He tried to contain his amusement, but he couldn't suppress a quiet laugh as she sat in front of him, silent and slightly wide-eyed.

He wished he could be present when she stepped outside and saw trees for the first time, but he knew that was impossible. He wasn't expecting to be let out of this room for several hours, if not days. He was going to miss it.

The only thing that soured the moment for him, really, was the unmistakable look of dismay that stole some of the wonder from her expression.

She was disappointed.

Of course she was disappointed. He'd expected that.

Didn't mean it didn't hurt, but it _was_ expected.

Realizing she was either refusing to or incapable of speaking first, Reddington gave a small nod and murmured, "Agent Keen… what a pleasure."

Liz swallowed, plastering a bland smile over her face. She just had to get through this initial meeting. She needed a piece of information, or evidence; something, _anything_ to take back to Cooper, and then she could excuse herself and have what she expected was going to be a fairly spectacular mental breakdown in the relative privacy of one of the stairwells or nearby bathrooms.

"Well…" she began, realizing she had no idea what to say. She was a profiler, for God's sake, and she couldn't even manage to begin an interview. Cooper probably had someone on the phone already, working on a feasible way to get her badge revoked. Liz could only imagine how unimpressive a performance this was from his vantage point. "I'm here."

"You changed your hair…" Reddington noted. He spoke gently, hoping his small talk might give her time to get her bearings. "It's a much richer brown; I like it. Less… Baltimore."

"I wouldn't know; I'm colorblind," Liz said, the practiced lie coming easily to her. She'd been claiming that status for years and she was immensely grateful that it still seemed to roll off of her tongue without hesitation or cause for suspicion. "I always just go with the hair dresser's recommendation."

One of Reddington's eyebrows raised slightly, and he tilted his head as if he were studying her even more closely than he had been before. The last vestiges of hope Liz held onto that her soulmate was among the nameless guards in the room disappeared: she could tell he knew she was lying.

It was her first day as an agent with the FBI, and her soulmate was a Top Ten criminal.

Fantastic.

"Do you get back home much?" Reddington asked. His initial amusement watching her introduction to color twisted and shriveled as he realized how distressed she was. She was doing an admirable job of hiding it, but the prospect of anyone discovering their connection obviously terrified her. A pang of guilt stabbed at Reddington's gut, and he regretted his decision to ambush her in front of her colleagues and superiors. On her first day.

He suddenly wished he'd come up with a different plan.

"Tell me about Zamani," Liz instructed, roughly shoving the conversation toward an official topic. Inelegant, but it was all she could manage at the moment. What color was his shirt? Almost a… lavendar?

"I haven't been home in years," Reddington said softly, almost as an afterthought.

"Why involve me?" Liz asked, giving an awkward, aborted shrug. "How did you know to ask for- - Did you- -" Liz took a moment, refusing to meet Reddington's near-constant gaze. She couldn't imagine a more massive mismatch of two people. Never mind the obvious age difference, look at what the two of them did for a living! Finally, Liz managed, her voice tight and anxious, "You're one of the most notorious criminals on the FBI's Most Wanted list, and I'm… I'm nobody."

"I disagree," Reddington said, barely above a whisper. He narrowed his eyes and smiled at her again, shaking his head. "I think you're _very_ special."

Liz's heart hammered in her chest, panicked that someone was going to pick up on what was going on. Reddington noted her discomfort, and rolled his jaw, resolving to stick to more professional information for the remainder of their visit. He launched into an explanation of the current threat, and how he came to know of Zamani's plans. When he finished his brief monologue, Liz gave a curt nod, and stood, turning back toward Cooper and the rest of the team.

"When you confirm all of this…" Reddington's voice stopped her, and she turned slightly to look back over her shoulder at him. He raised his eyebrows, hoping she would recognize the earnest nature of his request. "Will you come back and see me again? I think we should… talk more. I'd like to… spend more…" Reddington frowned, and Liz felt a swell of appreciation that he was choosing his words so carefully.

"We have work to do. The girl…" Liz pursed her lips. "I'll come back once she's safe," she promised.

Reddington watched her walk away, the red box sliding back into place around him. He couldn't honestly say he wasn't frustrated by the lack of momentum in their first conversation, but he was a patient man. He'd waited twenty-three years. He could wait a few more hours.

…:::...

TBC.


End file.
